


Swallow

by UnityGhost



Series: Post-Asmodeus Sabriel Feels [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Asmodeus (Supernatural) Being an Asshole, Background Asmodeus (Supernatural), Comforting Sam Winchester, Crying Gabriel (Supernatural), Dissociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, Force-Feeding, Gabriel (Supernatural) Has Issues, Gabriel (Supernatural) Lives, Gabriel (Supernatural) Needs a Hug, Gabriel (Supernatural) has PTSD, Hell Flashbacks, Hurt Gabriel (Supernatural), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Michael-less Dean, Platonic Sabriel, Post-Asmodeus Sabriel Feels, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sabriel - Freeform, Sick Gabriel (Supernatural), Sickness, Vomiting, fear of touch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-07-25 17:11:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16201985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnityGhost/pseuds/UnityGhost
Summary: “Sam, help me. Please - please - can you make it stop? Do something, do anything; please help me.”





	Swallow

**Author's Note:**

> Part of my Post-Asmodeus Sabriel Feels series. I'm a terrible person. A terrible person with no shame.
> 
> Gabriel lives (with no explanation) because I have this beautiful imaginary land where s13e22 never saw the light of day.
> 
> The story takes place a couple of months after the season 13 finale, so I thought it was safe timing to throw in Michael-less Dean.
> 
> If interested, you can find me on Fanfiction.net, Wattpad, and Tumblr.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Comments always appreciated.
> 
> WARNING: This story contains a brief reference to implied sexual abuse.

Series: Post-Asmodeus Sabriel Feels

Title: Swallow

General summary: “Sam, help me. Please - please - can you make it stop? Do something, do anything; please help me.”

Gabriel wasn’t hungry, but of course the healing process had to involve food. He could have abstained; it wouldn’t have killed him - but things were so much more slow-going when he simply left his grace to replenish on its own. Like it or not, sleep and sustenance were pretty crucial in speeding the process along.

But, as anyone can attest, eating when you have no appetite can be a horrible experience. As he sat down at the table with the other members of the Men of Letters bunker - now that virtually all of the refugees had returned to Apocalypse World to fight, save for a few who’d opted to stay behind and make new lives for themselves away from the other side and beyond the bunker, it was only him, Sam, Dean, and Castiel - Gabriel promised himself that he need not have anything more than a few mouthfuls of whatever was most nutritious. After that, he’d retire to his room and hope no one came in to check on him, as Castiel sometimes did.

The moment he took his seat, however, Gabriel froze, realizing there was no way - no way - he’d be able to swallow a single bite of anything, no matter how tasteless. He couldn’t tell what Dean had made, but the aroma was rich with sauces, spices, and definitely some kind of meat. Lamb, maybe. A warm, heavy smell that choked him and turned the world hazy.

“Kiss the cook, amigos,” Dean said, with a grating American accent, as he practically threw their plates at them with a stage-worthy flourish that he’d later deny they’d imagined.

Sure enough, Gabriel’s plate was heaping with lamb. Lamb, mashed potatoes, peas - way more than he could have held down at the best of times. Just looking at it was enough to shove bile up his near-human throat.

He could feel everyone looking at him even before he raised his eyes from the food.

Unsurprisingly, Sam was the first to speak. “You okay?” His face was full of concern.

Gabriel took a breath that didn’t quite reach all the way down. “One hundred percent.” He lifted his fork, the nausea thickened, and the silverware slipped from his fingers to the floor. The kitchen alternately shimmered and bled black.

Somewhere out of the corner of his eye he saw every single one of them leap to their feet. “Gabriel?” Someone grabbed him; the pair of hands on his shoulders was familiar - the only hands he’d allowed anywhere near his body since escaping from Hell. 

“Gabriel, what’s wrong? What’s happening?” Castiel. He sounded demanding, not worried.

Gabriel let out a low moan.

“No!” he heard Sam cry sharply, and flinched, thinking he was in trouble; but then: “Don’t touch him.”

Who? Who was going to touch him?

Sam’s voice softened. “He’ll let me close to him. But please. You’re just going to make it worse. I’m sorry, Cas. Don’t take it personally.”

Gabriel shuddered, feeling as though he was outside of his vessel, wanting to lift his knees and wind his arms around them and hide his face, but unable to do anything more than sit in a loose, dizzy puddle slumped in the chair.

“It’s okay, Gabriel, it’s okay,” Sam assured him in a gentle voice. “Gabriel, hey.” He tapped on Gabriel’s face to get his attention, to get him to focus. But although Gabriel wasn’t frightened of Sam’s touch, he was unaccustomed to hands on his face; and a memory rose up in him, the memory of having his nose held shut so that, in his near-graceless state, he was compelled to open his mouth to breathe. He jerked away, knocking the kitchen chair backwards and crashing to the floor. 

“No,” he rasped. “No, no, no, no, no!”

Sam knelt beside him on the floor, still speaking softly. “Okay, okay, calm down if you can. Deep breaths. It’s just us. You wanna get out of the kitchen? Will you let me help you up? Are you hurt?”

Without thinking, Gabriel seized his hand. Sam took that as confirmation and slowly guided him into a sitting position. “Ready to stand, or not just yet?”

Gabriel feared that if he opened his mouth to speak, they might take advantage of the opportunity. 

“Hey,” Sam said. “Focus. Come on, Gabriel, focus on me. Hey, come on.” He looked at Gabriel more closely, then turned to speak over his shoulder. “Guys, I need a bucket or something. He looks like he does after a nightmare.”

There was the sound of footsteps, and then Dean’s voice. “Here you go, Sammy.”

Sam placed the mop bucket within easy reach and turned back to Gabriel. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Gabriel swallowed. “No. No. I can’t.”

“Did one of us say something? Did I do something to - ”

“No, it wasn’t you! It wasn’t any of you!” He took a shaky breath. “Just me and my busted demon-o-meter.”

“Okay.” Sam gently helped him to his feet. “It’s okay.”

“I know.” Gabriel meant to sound harsh, but his voice came out weak. Sam still had his arm in a loose grip. “I can’t help it. Blah blah post-traumatic stress, blah blah.”

“Let’s go into my room,” Sam suggested, steering him away from the food on the table - the food that choked him, smothered him, turned his stomach inside-out - with one hand, and lifting the mop bucket with the other. Gabriel could feel Dean’s and Cas’s eyes on him as they made their way out. 

“This whole thing is so stupid,” said Gabriel.

“I’ve told you not to say things like that.”

Gabriel shuddered. Sam probably didn’t realize it, but it was always unsettling to hear him make anything that sounded even vaguely like a command.

When they got to Sam’s bedroom, Sam shut the door and sat on the bed. Gabriel just stood, uncertain, afraid to make himself vulnerable by bringing his body halfway to a supine position.

“Come on,” said Sam, and again it struck Gabriel as an order, so he swallowed and did as instructed.

“What was that?” Sam asked softly.

“Not interested in conversation,” Gabriel muttered. “Just wanted to … to be out of the kitchen.”

“Why?”

Gabriel gave an exasperated sigh. “Because silly things like the smell of food get under my skin, okay? I don’t want to talk about it!”

When his own words registered with him a moment later, he froze. That kind of defiance was exactly the sort of thing that had led to having his lips sewn shut. The type of behavior that resulted in beatings, in burns, in evisceration.

Gabriel inhaled sharply.

Sam waited.

“Okay,” Gabriel muttered, “He used to do this thing, this shit thing where he’d take the archangel blade and - and - ” He wondered if it was possible to go on without reverting to the state he’d been in only moments before.

“Gabriel.” Sam’s voice was warm and soft. “You need the bucket?”

“No,” Gabriel snapped. “I’m not that far gone. This is nothing new, Sammy. Those ‘flashbacks’ you were lecturing me about? They’re a real bitch.” Now he was determined to prove that he could explain what he’d remembered without sacrificing any self-control. “Let’s just tell it like it is. No tangents, no frills. Asmodeus used to take that damn knife and cut me open like a pumpkin. Rummage around a little bit. Slice into each individual organ if he had a mind to. My vessel was weak. He’d been wringing me dry. So Colonel Sanders could do whatever he wanted.”

“I know all that,” said Sam. “You’re adding tangents and frills.”

“A good storyteller provides a recap for forgetful audience members. But fine, I’ll jump straight to it. He had this - this almost erotic fascination with tearing things out one by one. Liver, lungs, heart. Thought it was a real fun game. Then, I don’t know - he got bored of the same routine or something. So he decided to shake things up a little.” He stiffened. “And that’s how I wound up with a stomach full of my own insides.”

The confession was followed by silence. Gabriel looked up at Sam, who was staring in horror. 

“No,” Gabriel choked out, and lurched forward to seize Sam in a desperate, crooked embrace that was more like a bug on flypaper. “No. No. No.”

Sam hugged him back. “It’s okay, Gabriel; deep breaths.”

“It was the meat,” Gabriel moaned, “The smell of the meat. I can’t get rid of him; I can’t get him out of my head.”

“Ssh, ssh, ssh, he’s not here.”

Gabriel’s breath quickened as he seized fistfuls of Sam’s shirt, face pressed into his chest. “Sam, help me. Please - please - can you make it stop? Do something, do anything; please help me.”

Sam pulled back, holding Gabriel at arm’s length to look him in the eyes. “Gabriel, it’s me. I’m the only one here. He’s gone. You’re safe, a hundred percent safe; you gotta tell yourself that until it sinks in.” Gabriel shivered under his grasp. “Okay, just look at me. Look, hey, I’m real. You’re real. He’s not here; it’s a bad memory, that’s all.”

“It doesn’t feel like a memory.” The edge of a sob crept into Gabriel’s voice and he held it back. He had some modicum of awareness, some fragment of consciousness that was just enough to keep him together. “And I can still smell the food. It’s everywhere.”

“Maybe we should go outside,” Sam suggested. “Might help bring you out of it.”

But the thought of exposing himself to the world - and yet the notion of remaining trapped here - and yet the idea that Sam could leave him so much more easily outside - and yet the realization that there was nowhere to escape if someone decided to hurt him here in the bunker -

“No,” Gabriel whimpered.

The whole thing was humiliating. He was as low as he’d been during his imprisonment. The only difference was that he could speak; he wasn’t filthy; he had the freedom to make requests without being attacked; and he was gradually coming to understand, even though there were so many terrifying moments like this one, that nobody - or at least not Sam - had any intention of changing their minds about whether or not he deserved to bleed or to scream or to lie naked on a grimy floor, crushed under a body slick with sweat and pulsing with stolen archangel grace.

The only difference, then, could be boiled down to one truth that he struggled to accept: it was over.

Gabriel shrugged Sam’s hands away. “One of these days you’re gonna get so sick of this. Maybe I won’t learn anything about how to help myself if you’re there to baby me every time.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works, Gabriel.”

“Yeah, well, this is getting old. All I do is soak up your time like some kind of neurotic sea sponge.”

Sam shook his head. “I don’t like watching this happen to you.”

“Nobody said you have to sit in the front row.”

“It’s not that. I mean that I’d feel a lot worse if I left you to work through this without at least having someone in the room with you. I’ll do whatever you want, Gabe, but only if it helps you get better.” He gave a sad smile. “Leaving you in solitary confinement isn’t my first choice.”

Gabriel hesitated, then said, “When I’m alone all I can do is wait for him.”

“Okay.” Sam laid a hand on Gabriel’s shoulder. “But he’s not coming.”

Gabriel’s throat closed up. Still, he managed to speak. “All the time, Sam. All the time. When I’m alone is the worst. When I’m with you, I - right now he’s here.” Fighting was too much. He lowered his head and let out a sob. “He’s still here.”

Sam squeezed his shoulder. “No he’s not, Gabriel.”

“I know! I know! But he’s - I can’t not be there!” Gabriel put his hands over his face and began to cry more forcefully. This was, what, the third or fourth time he’d let this happen during the past two months? Sometimes he wished that Sam would do something to hurt him - because Gabriel deserved to be punished for giving in these ridiculous instincts.

“It’s okay, man,” Sam said, and for the first time that night Gabriel heard a note of helplessness in his voice. “It’s okay. Here, come on, I gotcha.” He coaxed Gabriel into leaning against his side. “I gotcha.”

“What the hell is wrong with me?” Gabriel sobbed.

“Nothing. I promise. You’ve just had a lot happen to you is all. You’re gonna get better. It’s gonna be okay.”

“He - ” Gabriel pulled in a shuddering breath. “He force-fed me. Held me down and pinched my nose shut so I’d have to open my mouth.”

“Okay. It’s okay.”

“Sam, I - ” He shifted in Sam’s grip, pressed himself tighter into the warm body, and spasmed in a fresh wave of tears. “Sam, I’m sorry, I’m sorry - I thought I could - but I’m gonna be sick - I’m sorry - ”

“It’s all right. You can’t help it. I know you tried.” Without letting go, Sam bent to pick up the mop bucket and helped Gabriel place it in his lap. 

“I’m sorry,” Gabriel sobbed again, leaning over the bucket, “I’m sorry this keeps happening. I’m sorry you have to watch. I’m sorry I’m gonna throw up. I’m sorry, Sam, I’m sorry.”

Sam said something in response, but was drowned out by the hideous sound of Gabriel retching, and then by the beat of vomit against plastic. That this was revolting, Gabriel knew, was something even Sam couldn’t deny. He vomited again, and again, and a fourth time, fearing he might suffocate to death. 

Sam waited patiently, offering what little comfort he could through the touch that Gabriel had once feared.

“Damn it,” Gabriel whimpered, mouth dripping with bile, “I can’t stop.”

“It’s all right; it’s almost over,” Sam said softly.

And it was. Another minute or so of being sick, and then another minute of dry-heaving. 

“See?” said Sam, prying the bucket from his grasp and stretching down to place it some distance away. “You’re fine.”

Gabriel gave a groan of disgust and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “I need to fix this.”

Sam frowned. “Fix what?”

“Me. The way I react to everything going on around me. The way I can’t control myself or keep food down. It’s annoying. It’s embarrassing.”

“When your grace comes back - ”

“It’s not about grace. I could have all my grace and more and still be like this.”

“You don’t know that, Gabriel.”

“Yes. I do. This isn’t going away. The only thing that’s going to change is I won’t need to eat or sleep, which is fine and dandy because I won’t have nightmares; I won’t get sick. But I’ll still be … I’m not going to stop doing what I just did in front of you guys.”

“It’ll get better,” Sam promised. “I should know. It does. You have to be patient.”

“I have been patient!” Gabriel was irritated now. Irritated with himself, with Sam, with the memories, with the smell of the food mingling with the smell of what he’d just thrown up. “It’s been over two months, Sam. For you that might not be enough time to recover but me … for me … I’m different!”

In a peculiar moment of vulnerability and sudden affection, Sam reached out and took Gabriel’s hand. “Gabriel, I know it hurts.”

Gabriel swallowed, looking away, but clutched at Sam’s hand. “Aren’t you hungry? You’re missing dinner.”

“Not really.”

Gabriel grunted. “Well after that display, I guess I can’t blame you.”

There was a knock at the door. Gabriel looked at Sam in horror, not ready to face the others who had just watched him dissolve into a pale shadow of what he used to be.

“Guys?” called Cas. “It’s me. Can I come in?”

Sam squeezed Gabriel’s hand. “He’s your brother. He cares.”

Gabriel didn’t have the energy to fight. He gave a limp nod, leaning against Sam again.

“Yeah,” Sam called to Castiel, who opened the door and took in the scene before him - the tear tracks on Gabriel’s face; the bucket of vomit a few feet in front of the bed; Sam’s grip over Gabriel’s shoulder, hand pressed protectively over his arm.

Castiel looked crestfallen. “Brother, may I touch you?”

Gabriel looked up. He didn’t want anyone else near him, but was set on not humiliating himself further. “Sure.”

Castiel moved forward, and the moment he lifted his hand Gabriel closed his eyes, waiting for violence, and remained tense as Castiel pushed the hair out of his eyes. Just as Gabriel was going to tell him to stop, he drew away.

“I only came in to check on you,” Castiel told him. “Is there anything I can do?”

“All I need,” Gabriel replied, still letting Sam hold him, “Is a few hours to collect my pride.”

“Pride is hardly an issue.”

“All right, what if it were you? You wouldn’t be locking yourself up somewhere to scrape up the dismembered corpse of your dignity?”

“I like to think I wouldn’t. I have the Winchesters, after all.”

Sam smiled at him, then at Gabriel. “So do you.”

Gabriel groaned. “Can we not do this? I don’t think I have anything left to throw up. Please don’t make me me try.”

Castiel reached forward, apparently intending to grip Gabriel’s shoulder - then lowered it as he realized he hadn’t asked permission. “I’ll give you the space you need. Sam - ” He met Sam’s gaze in a silent “Are you okay to handle this by yourself?”  
Sam nodded as discreetly as he could. With a final glance at his brother, Castiel withdrew from the room, closing the door in his wake.

“You think he’s angry with me?”

The question took Sam by surprise. “Why would you possibly think that?”

“Because I … I can’t give him what he wants from me. He wants to help and I won’t let him. He wants me to be … not this.”

“He wants something for you, not from you. Gabe, of course he’s not mad.”

“What about you?”

“No one is angry with you. No one.”

Gabriel drew his knees to his chest. “You will be. When this doesn’t end, you will be.”

“No. You don’t need to worry about that. Besides, if I did get mad - I’m not gonna - but if I did it’s not like I would do anything to hurt you.”

Gabriel turned his head so that his face was pressed into Sam’s chest again. He was beyond caring about looking like a little kid. 

Sam held him close, not saying anything, not shifting. But he thought that perhaps if Gabriel could see that Sam was patient, that he wouldn’t let go, Gabriel would come to believe that the same could be said for the future.

Maybe Sam could change his mind - could coax him out of the memories and into the here and now, teach him how to feel safe again, bring him to lean into his brother’s touch instead of jerking away.

Besides, it was impossible for either of them to give up hope entirely when Gabriel had come to accept that at least one person could be trusted.

He took a deep breath, and realized that the scent of dinner had gone away almost entirely. His heart picked up speed, and, without moving any other part of his body so that he was still supported on his side, he hugged Sam. 

It was all so stupid. The shame ate at him piece by piece. 

But he could worry about that later.


End file.
